Speaking of which. . .

http://www.fallenprincesses.com/

"I not pretty" Well! What did you expect?

I was reminded that when we pay someone a complement on appearance, we may often be directing it to a store or a designer who made the item. Instead of saying “That blouse really makes you’re eyes sparkle, it’s beautiful” we say: “I love that blouse”. Or “I just wanted to tell you that I love your style, you have great taste” instead we say : “I love that purse”. Which complement would you rather be paid?

Note: The following are my personal thoughts and convictions. I’ve encountered some-what hostility when sharing my perspective in this area. While it is inevitable to feel a sense of threat or disapproval, I hope that you may walk away from this blog with questions and reflection vs. judgement.

I have three girls. Since my eldest was born I’ve put a lot of energy into understanding what messages she’ll be receiving in the world around her. This is due in part because I first processed the same for myself. I wondered which ones might be positive and therefore aiding her in becoming the strong, confidant and kind individual that most parents hope for. And which ones may be interpreted negative and might damage her sense of self worth or personal growth. Sure, I thought about methods of discipline and trying to speak to her civilly. . . However often go unnoticed are the daily messages that we all reinforce of “you’re not enough” or “this is what beauty is”. From the Ikea stores to salaries, retail commercials to clothing sizes (which are bogus).

I’ve been accused of thinking too much about it. “Oh sweetie, you’re looking too far into things” or “I don’t think it really matters as much as you think it does.” Oh really? Read on.

I read an article by Lisa Bloom a few months back that I appreciated so much, I wrote and thanked her for it (which is something I never do). It’s posted below. She wrote of her encounter at a friend’s home where she met their five-year old daughter for the first time. She was immediately inclined to complement the child on her pink nightgown. It may sound familiar “Maya, you’re so cute! Look at you. Turn around so I can see your pretty dress – you’re gorgeous!”. She didn’t and in my opinion, she knows better.

You may be thinking “What’s so wrong with giving a little girl a complement? Doesn’t it make them feel good, boost their self esteem? God intended women to feel beautiful, it’s very important to reinforce this for little girls”  Hmm.

She explains that our social ice breakers we resort to when meeting children are usually on appearance. Politely telling them "how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are." While this may be with good intentions, it is counter-productive. 


Children are like clay. They memorize the messages they receive and if they aren't conforming into them, they are STILL being affected by them. This is a wonderful opportunity but a very fragile one. I don't believe that they exist to be trained for our amusement or doting, but to become and well serving human to the world they entered. The same goes for boys. I default to "complementing" them on how strong they are or how fast because I don't have much interaction with them and let's be honest - I don't know what to say. Then I realized, there are boys who aren't strong or fast and will never be strong or fast. I wondered how I would feel if I had a boy who wouldn't fall into that category and if I'd appreciate him being told he has to merely by the way he's spoken to. Truth is, I have a little girl who is typically out-shined, out ran and rarely ever praised for her appearance. Her skills and creative mind go unnoticed outside of family. I suppose just to let you know how that makes me feel, I get teary thinking about it. 


Lisa then goes on to explain her uneasiness in having small talk with this little girl and how difficult it was to avoid typical complements or topics. To read how this story ended, click the link below. In summary, it turns out the child had a lot of intelligent things to say. She's even read a story book or two in her short life that she could tell you about! Imagine that.

Despite my efforts to be intentional in this area, I had a pivotal encounter with my 2 year old recently. She is obsessed with the ever-infiltrating Disney Princesses. I’ll be the first to admit that I dote on her as she sways across the room dancing and singing Aurora’s song. It’s entertaining and “cute” but the entire time I am thinking “uh oh”. She demands to be read princess stories, watch the movies and most recently much to my dismay, wear princess images and logos. I’ve shared with those in my life how this is a challenge for me and have risked being thought of as a joy-killer in order to speak out on what I felt was right. It’s always been with a purpose and never from a “I’m better than you” mentality. But we are human and when someone else raises concerns about what we easily accept, we feel threatened. Interestingly enough it’s not other people who are my most difficult opponent. It’s not even the 2 yr. old. It’s myself. 

I had put Cinderalla back in her attic for awhile (get it? Hee hee) and have offered in her place a Seasame Street video or a few sing-along CD’s. Keep in mind - it’s far easier on my sanity to flip on Her Royal Highness and her little rodents vs. singing “I’ve been working on the railroad” and thousand and twelve times. . . (sometimes I think I’m losing my mind and might actually be on the railroad). Ultimately I chose to give in and play the darn thing after she had fiercely dug the DVD out of the bottom of the pile. While it played she talked and talked, happy as a clam. “I yike Cindaella” in her 2 yr. old jargon. “You yike Cindaella Momma?” I answer, “Cinderella is very kind. Yes, I like that too”.  She confirms it and goes on. “She pretty” she says matter of factly.  “Momma, you tink Cindaella pretty?” “Well,” I say. “Cinderella is very kind to her sisters and she’s so nice to animals. She loves people and yes, I like that”. “No!” she refutes. “Cindaella pretty.” I answer “I think you’re pretty Sam”. She then seemed focused on finding out if I think Cinderella is pretty so she asks again “Momma! You tink Cindaella pretty?” She raises her voice and waits in anticipation for my answer. She’s trying to find out what pretty is. And this is exactly where it takes place. I face my enemy: that constant voice telling me to “oh come on, lighten up, who cares. . . tell the little kid that her favorite princess is pretty. . . you're being extreme." I learned this voice as a small child and it is still everywhere. Finally I say “Oh I dunno. I guess. You know who’s pretty? I think YOU’RE pretty!”

She answers:

“I not pretty.” “I Sam.”   “Cindaella pretty”.

Lisa Bloom’s How to Talk To Little Girls:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-bloom/how-to-talk-to-little-gir_b_882510.html

The Sweeper & other scary things.

I watched my daughter play her first sports game this past Saturday. In doing this I realized that my children aren’t going to have a bigger fan than their Momma! If she had chosen ping pong, you can bet that I’d be suited up, extra paddle in tow and her name written on my cheek. . . thankfully, she chose soccer. It’s a much more traditional game for cheering.

I watched as she tried to get a bearing of the field. Between the rambunctious  parents cheering on the side lines and the coach’s directions she struggled with what exactly it was she was supposed to be doing. As the hoard of girls came towards her, kicking and running, she hesitated. “Do I run in towards them? Do I risk getting trampled? Am I going to die?” I can imagine these were some of her thoughts. . . she wrote them all over her face.

It’s not natural for some people to see chaos in front of them and run head on into it. Particularly while the unknown is awaiting you on the other side. I’ve met people throughout my life who face adversity with a smirk. As if they’re delighted for the challenge.

I’m finding that it depends on the situation. This week I found myself shrinking down with each passing day. I’m tired. I’m drained. I’m unsure. I feel like my life is taking from me more than it's giving and while I’m usually up to the task. . . I’m running on empty. Consequently, as I was walking up the basement stairs, laundry in tow, my mind ran through the coming week and I was overcome with dread mixed with a little uncertainty, and maybe even a little defeat. It’s as if the appointments, the kids, the giving and simply the norm was all coming at me like a hoard of fierce little soccer players. I slumped down on the top stair and started to cry. Fearful. I’m not ready for tomorrow . . . I’m not even ready for my kid’s naptime to be over in 10 minutes. But this morning I was reminded of the most basic lesson that we teach children at church. We’re here in this life to do our best, to be kind and to do what is right. Problem: we can’t do this by ourselves. God offers to help us everyday. Good thing too because I asked God to help me right there between the neatly folded pants and missing pair of socks. I couldn't articulate what exactly I needed help in but He knew and I just breathed it up towards Him and sat there for a moment.

Some days you just hang on. Breathe. Get through the day and get it over with. Because looking ahead doesn't always give you the warm fuzzies. When I thought about the entire game . . or in my case the coming week, I shrank back and froze.

Instead I told myself to just think about what the next play was, not the whole game. . . so I got up off the stairs and started dinner. It’ll work out.

Work vs. Labor

When I think of Labor Day, I can’t help but think of Mom and Dad. They come to the forefront of images. . before Barbecues and picnics, American pride or Labor Day sales. They embody the reason the day is set aside.

Of course there are many people who punch the clock everyday. Fewer that enjoy their jobs and fewer still who have integrity performing them.  For a few decades my Dad rose before the sun with a thermos lunchbox and steel toed boots. He punched the clock and endeavored into a margin of the workforce where ethics and care to detail were still fundamental. There was no room for negotiation, no excuses of fatigue but instead he was the kind of man who took his faith with him and preformed for his family and I would venture to say, for God. His paychecks provided us a home, education, fun and full bellies. It was more than we needed and often deserved. Looking back at our few vacations, they lacked grandiose travel and shiny souvenirs. Instead they were trips to the lake where we’d camp and fish. Our family made memories that are my most precious treasures today and the best vacations a child could have! More importantly we were together. My Dad would tell you today “it was all we could afford then”. But even with the thickest of wallets, some fathers don’t compare to giving their children all that we were given. He loved me, believed in me, but more importantly – told me about it.  And he did this often on days when he punched the clock. Some people work. But not him, he labored.

Same can be said for my Mom. You see, any one can be a “mother”. A woman can give a kid some breakfast and ship ‘em off to school. She can make sure the child has decent clothes and an activity or two, throw some toys or vacations at them, maybe a day out together. But there’s few who might really talk to their child and then take a turn and listen. Fewer still that will assume the position as more than a title. . . but as a job to be done with intention. With integrity. There isn’t a clock-in and out time,  or uninterrupted lunch breaks or even a quiet drive to work. Well, maybe not a drive. . .

My Mom always got up at the crack of dawn. While thinking this rather foolish on her part, as a child it annoyed me. I’d think “it isn’t fair for someone who wasn’t a morning person, to have some happy, smiling face opening the blinds and coaxing you out of bed. All the while singing some stupid little tune she made up” which stuck in your head until recess that day! Sometimes I wondered if I was living inside Cinderella’s bedroom, just around the corner would be a pair of chirpy birds and merrily singing mice. Mothers. Misunderstood. Unappreciated. I understand now that she was the wheels that moved this machine….this family, this workplace called home. Combined with my Dad, they operated in sync. He provided the home and she worked hard to protect it. She made the breakfasts, packed the lunches, and prayed him off to work. She prepared the home for the morning that us kids would unknowingly partake in. Complete with daily notes of care and encouragement in our lunchboxes (yes, it’s true and they were embarrassing at the time). There’s a passage in Proverbs that describes a woman of noble character. As I’ve explored this over the years I admit I’ve struggled with bits and pieces but I’ve come a distance in my journey of understanding it.  One scripture in particular: “She gets up before dawn and provides food for her family. . .” (Prvb 31:15) Believe it or not – there IS some wisdom in this! My Mom didn’t sleep until she was ready to get up or haphazardly drag herself out of bed because she “just isn’t a morning person”. If she had, she'd be giving us her left overs . . . not her best. Of course, I don’t recall every morning as a child but in all my memories, I can’t remember when she told me that she was tired, or to go away so she could wake up. She could have easily turned on the ever-ready-babysitting TV, or had my brother entertain me with Nintendo and army men. But instead, she approached her days in the home with intention. Like other women who got dressed and went off to work, so did she. With prayer and integrity. It’s not an easy task. In a job your ethics are proven when no one is looking, when no one is around to jot down a potential bonus or praise in a quarterly newsletter. She read and colored and sang and talked and dressed up and decorated, was silly and talked some more – when she didn’t have to. She still does.  She did more than worked. She labored.

So here I am this Labor Day morning. I admit, I’m a bit hard on others at times thanks to my upbringing. I don’t have much pity for those who don’t work hard and I don’t respect those who complain about it when they do.  I try not to take my role as a mother passively.  Because in all reality what we create today either in the workplace or in people, is usually what we can expect to reap tomorrow.

When it’s my turn to pack my child’s lunch (because after all, this is a new day and age when the hubby gets to do some work around the home too) I try to slip a note in. It’s not everyday, but it’s often. I'll admit, I’m unsure on how to send notes to a first grader who is still learning to read but I’ll draw pictures or jot down something simple and then I'll wonder. . . how did my Mom do it?

Happy Labor Day.